


Risk

by quaffanddoff



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Dubcon Cuddling, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fingerfucking, Moral Ambiguity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:27:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27003535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quaffanddoff/pseuds/quaffanddoff
Summary: Dominika has nowhere else to go. She trusts House because she has no other choice.
Relationships: Greg House/Dominika Petrova
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Risk

They’re lying in bed, side by side. They remain unnaturally still, each overly conscious of the other’s position. They both try not to move too much because the other can feel and hear the rustling and it’s too weird, too intimate, too much like touching. They’re not touching, though. They’re as far apart as they can possibly be on the bed and facing away from each other. They can still hear one another’s breathing, quiet, steady, pretending to sleep but unmistakably still awake. 

He feels frozen in place and wishes he could just relax already. He's wearing more clothes to bed than he normally would if he were alone, keeping modest to keep her comfortable, but he feels constricted by them. He sighs and shifts just a tiny bit. He hears her do the same. He rolls over onto his other side, facing her now, and watches the dim image of her back a few feet away in the darkness. His eyes drift over her long hair, spread out on her pillow, and the way the sheets are tented by her ass. 

Yeah, she’s hot. Normally, that would be more than enough for him to make a move. For some reason, this time, it feels wrong. Maybe it’s her precarious legal status, or some of the few brief, grim details he’s gotten about the life she fled in Russia. But there’s too much at stake for this to be a simple satisfaction of baser urges. Touching her would really feel like taking advantage of her. She doesn’t really have anywhere else to go—nowhere safe, at least. She’s depending on him. In a very real way, she's _dependent_ on him. She smiles a lot and plays along with his games, but beneath it all, she’s desperate.

Even in the dim light coming through the window, he can see the tension in the line of her thin shoulders. She probably knows he’s looking at her. She can probably guess what he’s thinking.

She’s a young woman, a girl almost, alone in a foreign country, in bed with a strange, frankly untrustworthy man whom she hardly knows. She’s putting her trust, her life in his hands, because she has no other choice. She was even resigned to have sex with him if it meant getting her green card. She was actually surprised when he didn’t expect that. On their wedding night, she had prepared to do her duty, sure that this is what he must want. When he turned her down she was relieved but also confused. And also, if she was being honest with herself, a little disappointed. Maybe she took it personally that he didn’t find her attractive. Maybe she found him a little attractive, too, and had been looking forward to this part in addition to dreading it. 

He takes a deep breath and shifts again, closer to the center of the bed now. She just lays there, breathing steadily, not moving closer, not moving farther away. Then again, she had been on the edge of the bed already and doesn't have much farther away to move.

He shifts closer yet and she flinches. He studies her form, the way the blankets drape over her waist.

Slowly, following an irrational impulse, he reaches out an arm to encircle that waist, pulling her closer, tucking her gently but firmly against the length of his body. She neither resists nor relaxes. He can feel her abdomen tense under his hand flat against her stomach. He presses his face into the back of her neck, inhaling the scent of her hair. A shiver passes through her body palpably. He honestly isn't sure if her reaction is a good or bad one. He nuzzles his cheekbone against hers and touches his lips to the back of her ear. They're fit together like puzzle pieces, flush. His hand slides slowly upward, landing between her breasts. It pauses there for a while, waiting for her reaction. 

But no reaction is forthcoming. He has no idea what she's thinking. He could ask. He could stop. He could pull back.

Instead, he allows his hand to wander further, seizing one breast and squeezing. Her breath hitches, possibly in pleasure, more likely in pain, he can't tell. Regardless, he feels his arousal stir. The handful he had grabbed feels so perfect, soft and smooth, and instinctually, he kneads it harder. 

The weirdness and wrongness of what he is doing can't overtake the pressure building inside him. He aligns himself with her ass and grinds into her slowly. She lets out a small squeak, or maybe it's a whimper? He doesn't know how to classify it. But the beast that has awoken in him isn’t much concerned about classification anyway. He loses himself in the rhythm, the sensation of his hips pushing, his fingers gripping. She gasps as the hardness makes itself known, crushing against her ass cheek.

His hand loosens its bruising grasp and glides back down to where it started, on her trembling belly. Then it ventures on further, slipping into the waistband of her pajama pants. His fingers play with the soft hair there, drifting in unfocused circles. 

Her hips are trapped between his hand and his erection. She twists, trying to avoid pushing more into either. Something about her feeble attempt to evade him inspires both pity and lust in him. He shoves his hand down, down, and to his furious delight discovers that she's wet. He dips his fingers into her and she twists harder, a panicked jerk away from his fingers, trying to escape but beginning to moan at the same time. He feels her body betray her by accommodating his intrusion. He thrusts his fingers in short bursts, feeling her open for him. He props himself up on one elbow to give him more leverage, more power to finger-fuck her harder and deeper. Her wetness spreading down to his knuckles, the arch in her back, the groan rising from deep in her throat—they all combine to obscure his better sense and saner judgment. 

He grits his teeth and redoubles his efforts, plunging into her again and again—his wife, a stranger, a sham that is becoming all too real, until she cries out for him—her husband, a stranger, a risk she's willing to take.


End file.
